


Seven Stages

by MindfulWrath



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Ya Dead Ya Dead, ydyd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 09:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14161986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: Shock, pain, anger, depression; the upward turn; reconstruction, acceptance.OrLindsay and Gavin, Alfredo, Ryan, Geoff, Jack, Jeremy and Trevor.Michael.





	Seven Stages

In some ways, it's easier because he knew it was coming.

There's more of Lindsay left than he expected, but some important parts are missing. Her throat, namely, and a lot of blood. She's a mess, but death-by-zombie is always messy. It's strange, to see her so still. She isn't usually—

She _wasn't_ usually still.

"We gonna bury her, or what?" Michael asks. "Somebody got a shovel?"

Only mumbles in return.

"I killed the zombie, so uh, not it," says Trevor.

"I'm like, a million miles underground," Ryan says, crackly through the radio. "Sorry, y'know, I totally would if I was there."

"No you wouldn't," Michael snaps. "You know you wouldn't, don't fucking lie."

"I can do it, if you want me to," Jack offers.

"Fuck it, whatever, I'll do it," says Michael. He's already made up his mind. He doesn't want anyone else alone with her, when she's like this. She's too still, too quiet, too empty. There's an intimacy in death that he could not predict and doesn't know how to handle.

"I'm sure that's what she'd want," says Geoff. "I mean, I _guess_ it is. I don't know what the marriage was like."

"Fuck off, Geoff," says Michael.

He finds a shovel. He finds a place far enough from the house that the smell won't get obtrusive.

For four hours, he digs. His fingers blister. His shoulders burn and ache. Lindsay lies at the graveside, baking in the sun, already starting to stink.

"Couldn'ta died in a hole?" Michael grumbles. "Woulda been more convenient for everybody. God dammit, Lindsay. Fuckin' dumbass."

It's just sweat on his face. It isn't tears. If his nose is running, it's because of the smell.

At sunset, he drags Lindsay into the ground. Crickets fill the evening with buzzing. Michael fills the hole with dirt. He tries not to look at her face, speckled with brown; her body, drenched with blood. She doesn't move, even when the dirt covers her completely. There's no sputter and gasp, no hoarse complaints, no insults.

Michael buries her, alone in the night. When he is done, he stands at the grave. The handle of the shovel is bloody. There is an ache in his chest that won't go away, a hole he can't fill in.

"Fuckin' dumbass," he says again. It's a poor excuse for a eulogy, but he can't find anything better. There isn't a tombstone, either; the only thing close is a big tree, and even that's not all that close because he had to avoid the roots.

Still, he goes to it. With his knife and his blistered-bloody fingers, he carves an epitaph into the bark, deep, until the sap runs out.

_Tree of Wife._

She would've thought it was funny.

Eventually there's nothing left to do. Eventually the sounds of crickets are drowned out by the moaning and clatter of monsters, the hiss and zip of creatures with hungry eyes and mouths.

Michael turns his back and heads home. It's not as bad, he tells himself, because he knew it was coming. He knows she won't be at the house when he gets there. He knows that there will be a voice missing from the clamor. He knows that, and it should make it easier. It should be easier.

It shouldn't be this hard. Half a heart is enough to live on. He still has half his heart left.

Michael goes home.

* * *

 

Gavin's dead as soon as he hits the ground. It's in the sickening _crunch,_ the abrupt end of the screaming. Michael comes running anyway, shouting his name, hoping an impossible hope.

_Not him. Not him, too._

It's less bloody than he expected. Gavin landed face-up, the arrow buried less than an inch in his shoulder. The arrow alone wouldn't have killed him. It was the stumble, the shock, the long, long fall.

Michael kneels at his side. Blood soaks through his trousers, still warm. Glassy eyes stare at nothing. There is distant shouting, distant voices. None of them are Gavin's. Michael takes his face in his hands.

Still warm.

"Boi?" Michael says.

Gavin doesn't answer.

He knew this would happen. He _knew_ this would happen. Of course it was Gavin, it's _always_ Gavin, and of course it was Ryan, and of course there was nothing he could do, of course he was too late, he knew, he knew, he _knew...._

Jeremy skids on his knees through the mud. There are tears on his face, bramble-scratches on his arms, twigs caught in his hair. He speaks, but the words are muffled, underwater. There's chatter in his ear, static-sharp. One of the voices is Ryan's, panicked laughter and roughshod excuses, _he was asking for it, I didn't mean it, it's not my fault._

Michael snaps off the fletched end of the arrow. He puts it in his pocket. He gets to his feet.

He expected to be angry. He isn't angry.

Jeremy chases after him like a mother hen, takes his arm and guides his steps. Michael lets him. When Jeremy's distracted, he keeps walking. He gets lost. He doesn't bother to get found again. There's nothing to go home to. There's nothing at all.

Turns out, the other half of Michael's heart wasn't his.

* * *

 

The first gasp of water into his lungs is agony.

Michael thrashes, feral panic clawing through his insides. He kicks off the bottom, gasps again, whites out with pain. Strong hands grab his arm and haul him to the surface.

The first gasp of air is agony, too, and the second and the third and the fourth. The water is like needles in his lungs, his armor heavy as death. Jeremy drags him to shore and dumps him on the sand. Michael coughs and retches and collapses, trembling, crying. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much. He hadn't expected to chicken out.

"Michael, no," Jeremy pants, still clutching his arm. "No, Michael, no. This isn't what Gavin would want. This isn't how you fix this."

"Gavin would want me to be with him," Michael says. His voice is hoarse and choked. Every word tastes of blood, every sound is raw and painful. "Gavin wouldn't want to be alone."

"Well—I don't," says Jeremy. "I don't want to be alone, either. I don't want to lose you, too."

Michael can't answer.

The next time Jeremy takes his eyes off him, Michael walks away, into the jungle, into the sweltering tangle of green death. It's all right, because Jeremy finds Ryan, and finds home, and isn't alone. It's all right. It's not his responsibility anymore.

So Michael keeps walking.

* * *

 

One by one, the others go quiet.

Alfredo dies screaming, not like Gavin died screaming, but slowly and in pain. He fades. He fizzles. The others panic, calling out for him, mourning, angry, weeping.

Michael keeps walking.

Ryan dies falling, not like Gavin died falling, but quickly, and without fear. The only sound he makes is a quiet grunt of pain when the arrow hits, a sharp _crack_ when the ground breaks his neck. There is a vicious satisfaction in Jeremy's voice as he explains, an edge of madness. No one objects. No one thinks twice about it.

Michael keeps walking.

Geoff dies afraid, much like Gavin died afraid, with an audience. Jack is horrified. Trevor is frenzied in his graveyard—Michael doesn't know if it's anywhere near Lindsay, but he hopes it isn't. Jeremy doesn't care. Something in Jeremy is already dead.

Michael keeps walking.

Jack goes suddenly, and without warning, just like Gavin. Trevor panics. Jeremy laughs. They're fucked. They're going to die. They knew this was coming, but not so soon, not so soon.

They knew this was coming.

Whatever died in Jeremy spreads its necrosis to Trevor. They are the last two alive, even if they don't sound it. There is a madness in solitude, even if they are only alone together. Michael listens to them unravel. He wonders, if he goes far enough, if he'll stop hearing them altogether—the radio will go out of range, and whatever happens to them won't be his problem.

He does stop hearing them, sooner than he expected. It's a quiet thing, a simple thing. They don't scream. They say their goodbyes and then they are gone.

They make it sound so easy.

Night falls, and he is alone. He does not intend to survive the night. He builds a fire anyway, because there's nothing else to do. He talks to himself, because there is no one else to listen. He keeps his back to the darkness, because there is nothing left to live for.

Michael closes his eyes, and he breathes, and he waits.

And then he gets out his pocket knife, and finds a tree, and makes himself a tombstone, because no one else will.

 _Tree of Husband._ Just doesn't quite have the same ring to it. When Death finally finds him, claws and teeth and arrows, he is laughing.

In some ways, it's easier because he knew it was coming.


End file.
